It is done and it was quite simple. Yes, MongoDB is superior to MySql. Yes, I know they are different beasts, but since switching for martenblog, my pituitary gland has stopped secreting alien resin into my hypothalamus.

So the script to update Heroku is happily done. Now, to the novel I’ve been reading. I bet you cannot guess what it is.

The move to the office has, indeed, helped curb my lethargy. I find that every day I must make an addition to martenblog as a flint spark to my neurological state. So far today, it has been a modification to the CSS which makes the scrollbar on the topics sidebar tolerable, as well as resizing the widths of the sidebars. Yeah, it is not perfect and the header is still strangely offcenter, but I am not worried at this moment about this anomaly.

Next, I should definitely create a script which will compare the MongoDB on both localhost (that’s mustela-ermina to you, buddy) and on heroku, then transfer new additions to the entry, topic and entry_topic collections from the former to the latter. Isn’t that exciting?

I was mistaken about the Mennonite chick from two days back. She was not the same as I saw and mentioned during my first tentative discourse about the cultish group. I saw her last night, however, wearing the traditional skirt and blouse, marching along the sidewalk (always anti-clockwise) with a determined face. She glanced at me as I passed in a clockwise direction. I saw vacuity. Perhaps it was imagination. Perhaps it was reality. I should not fool myself that anyone ensconced in the cultish phenomenon would be open-minded enough to accept me as a friend. There is the age difference, as well, which may be an issue for such younglings.

Ah! Lack of experience would also be a factor. No, Christián, not sexual experience, you single-minded fool! I peer back into my past at who I was at üheksateist years of age, sheltered till then in the bubble of Fort Stockton. Perhaps I was on the cutting edge of bright young minds coming from such a figuratively walled citadel, but had absolutely nothing on the remainder of the state, especially those from cities such as Austin, Dallas, Houston, San Antonio, or even El Paso. Not to fucking mention the rest of the good ol’ USA and the mythological (for me at the time) world beyond. I was a naive youngling. I thought I was not. But I certainly was. The contrast with what I have seen since and that of, say, a seitseteist to üheksateist aged Mennonite would be extreme. Perhaps she’d be fascinated with my stories of travels and bizarre situations her dreams may have only hinted at. Perhaps she’d just try to convert me to her faith, as she’s taught to from a young age.

Evangelism. Proselytizing. I don’t like it.

Suffering is the norm around these parts. My parents and their peers (and relatives) seem to thrive on it. This fecundity of psychological torture most likely wears them down and will be the main cause of death (especially for my mother), but it is practiced like the well oiled catholic girl’s ritual.

News isn’t news unless there is tragedy involved. Why is this? My parents never come up to me and tell a story about anything positive and uplifting concerning recent times. Oh yes, they reminisce about their (much) younger days with a tangible gleam in the eye.

Their faith is the only positive force, supernatural and superstitious as it is. Returning from any journey by car of any substantial length (read - more than 5 miles), as the doors are opened and we disembark, ready to enter the air-conditioned solace of this house, words are always spoken (though not by me) giving thanks to the Lord for a safe journey.

Matters of faith bludgeon me. They cannot be reckoned with discursively. We all know that.

As most of you know, every evening whilst in Seminole, I walk in the only practical place: the park. I believe there are other parks in Seminole (if one can call them that), but the others may easily be mistaken for vacant lots. This one is sculpted. Mostly devoid of trees, strolling at any time besides early morning or late evening is out of the question. I returned approximately kolmkümmend neli minutes ago from my daily stroll.

Tonight it was at its most populated that I can remember. The main contributors to the population were discrete clumps of Mennonites. One group numbered maybe kaksteist, others were kolm or neli. The solitary girl I saw the other night was also present. I did not break silence with her. This time, she didn’t glance at me that I noticed. See on elu.

One of these clumps - one numbering viis, I think - a family - seemed to observe me with a keen interest. That was my initial impression, anyway. I was justified in this suspicion when a girl of maybe üksteist detached herself and approached me whilst I was studying Eesti on a bench. (Yes, I didn’t walk contastly, but did sit and study my vocabulary at times, which contrasts last night during which I only walked and absorbed a variety of musics.) She handed me a small book, longer horizontally than vertically, stapled as binding. It was a cry for one to accept Jesus in the form of a comic. I only read through the first neli or viis pages. Perhaps I’ll read through the whole thing and let my readers know how fantastic it truly is.

I wanted to, on my next cycle round the park, hand it back to the child and tell her sorry but I am not interested. The clump of Mennonites had vanished, however, by the time I reached the spot again…

Lethargy sweeps over me.

AGAIN!

I am a sponge for stifling burdens which weigh. I cannot even stumble under them since I am perpetually sitting in bed. A move to the office may be in order. I shall try that tactic tomorrow. Oh, and when I write sponge, I do not mean sponge in the sense of, like my friend Christián Newman, having the intellect of a sponge, but instead having the capability to absorb the lackadaisical atmosphere of West Texas.

I once wrote a short story. It may still exist on the hard drive which has sat wanting to be recovered for üksteist aastat. In it, I write about the Texas summer and how it fills one with despair and squeezes all creative energy from the brain - that sponge. When the brain is released from its grip, it inflates, but this time is filled with a dread laziness. An inability to move, to create, or even pace the floor. One thanks the good lord Jesus for air conditioning at this point. Winter is the creative season in Texas. But may I be far far away (in Estonia!) by the time that it comes around.

I need to

• Study Estonian
• Finish this Lovecraft story
• Muddle up something which seems important at the time
• Start puttering around with dotcloud

But first I must take a broken down lamp to its final resting place: the dumpster.

I wonder how I managed to be so productive in Seminole during December 2010 and January 2011. It is a mystery since now I spend my time lolling about reading useless forums. I was musically active then. I wrote 30 000 words of a novel which is yet to be completed. I need to get off my ass mentally and produce something.

I must admit that I have finished (I say the word a bit laughingly) the martenblog in Clojure and it is running on Heroku. Next! Assign a real domain name to it, Bobbus. Jah. Bluehost will become dead in the water. I’ll probably not pay for it in December. By some sort of miracle, money will begin rolling in from grey holes all around, financing sites in the clouds. For üheksakümmend üheksa bucks a month, I can have unlimited dotcloud uptime. First, I must get something like this blog running as an example there. Eventually lutreola has to go somewhere that supports the Java (and therefore Clojure) platform. That means a cloud service like Heroku or dotcloud. There are many other choices, of course. These are just the two (actually mostly the former) I’ve been tooling with. Jah.

(dotcloud)
(Heroku)
(dotcloud)

It seems when a new topic is required, an exception is thrown. The exception looks like this:

java.lang.RuntimeException: java.lang.ClassCastException: java.lang.String cannot be cast to java.util.Map$Entry

This makes no sense to me at the moment, so I’m doing a few tests. This post is the beginning of them. I hope you enjoy thoroughly.

I finally pulled out the remains of the vodka from the ragged, bulky, green backpack over yonder. I’ve taken one drink and feel it already. For now, it is pleasant.

For the past few days, I have been studying Estonian vocabulary. As all of my faithful readers know, I am on my way to Estonia at the end of June. I must admit that at first I was very daunted from the lack of similarity in vocabulary to any other language I know (or even have an inkling of). Anymemo has done its best to rid me of this preposterous fear. Just this morning, whilst waiting for my father in a uncomfortable, meshed chair outside the bank, I was testing myself. After just a few days, I can remember phrases with words which are unlike anything I have seen before. Just a simple phrase like I am trying to learn Estonian:

Ma uritan eesti keelt oppida.

I apologize for omitting the diacritics, but I’m having a bit of a tiff with my keyboard layout. Meaning that I’ve been to lazy to fuck with it. Yes sir ee. Now for another swig.

The numbers are exceedingly regular and fit comfortably in my mind. There are no irregularities in the pre-teens, for example.

The Mennonites in this town seem oddly removed from the regular country folk. On my walk yesterday, I encountered a blonde and very Swiss looking girl in old-fashioned dress and out-of-place earphone getup. She must be around seventeen (seitseteist). She was aloof, walking as if the park was her own and paying attention to no-one. Her steps occasionally led her into the grass as if the path in her mind simply pointed that direction. It was natural. Perhaps I should talk to her next time I see her. Yeah, I know what these ultra-religious types are all about, in a sense, but the thought is still intriguing.

Peasants?

Peasants?

Oh, yeah. Cashews. They are tasty.

Please don't eat the striped thing with a tail.

At long last, I can post again to the Martenblog (formerly called the Sheepblog, but I have graduated (or gradiated) from sheep form to mustelid from, so…). Yes, lethargy did prevent me from reaching this state in recent months. My time in Hostivice, for example, was riddled with disillusion and fatigue - loneliness and depression. My time in Tuzla was much the same, with the additional slights of alienation and boredom.

But here I am in Seminole. Isn’t it interesting that when I am here, I am very productive both creatively and programmatically? It must be the lack of alcohol. Heh.

Goals for the remainder of May are to write copiously about the correspondence Christopher and I have had over the last nine months, and to get the Foundation Lutreola site up and full of content.

Regarding the second goal, there is this: lutreola!. It may no longer be extant when my dedicated reader comes upon this entry, however. It is simply a hastily patched together demo for what could be a lutreola site. The best thing about it, by far, is that it is done in Clojure/Noir. I’d happily never code in Ruby again were it possible.

(lutreola!)

So, at six o’clock in the morning… here we go…

This is a test post. If it works, it shall be the first time that my Clojure-coded martenblog will have been able to add new entries to the database.